


Feral

by IcyKali



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Fix-It, Gen, Genetically Engineered Beings, Grooming, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Blood, Most of the horror is in Weyoun's warped thought processes, Psychological Horror, Sexual Harassment, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyKali/pseuds/IcyKali
Summary: An offhand comment leads to Weyoun questioning his ability to serve the Founders—the basis of his entire existence. This is a psychological horror one-shot that is a reinterpretation of characters and species who were aligned with Dominion.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Feral

“Are you aware of how Weyoun here unnerves Captain Sisko?” Dukat asked. 

“Of course I'm aware,” the Founder said. Her incredible patience and tact apparently prevented her from pointing out that the presence of Dukat himself angered Sisko even more.

“We Cardassians are known for our diplomatic skill.” Dukat leaned back in his chair. “It exceeds that of others,” he said, fixing Weyoun with a stare, but continued to address the Founder. “It is a shame that neither of us have the time nor resources to bring the Vorta to our academies for Cardassian diplomatic training. Fortunately, there are many diplomats of high caliber more than capable of—”

The Founder remained ever placid even in the face of Dukat’s arrogance. “I understand your disappointment, and we will be collaborating on a solution. My people created the Vorta before we had a strong understanding of how humanoid species function. We'll be scrapping the species shortly and reallocating the resources from their cloning facilities to new projects. But I'm keeping Weyoun as my personal servant for now until I have a replacement who's both unquestioningly loyal and capable of intelligent thought.”

Dukat’s mouth fell open as if he was trying to catch insects with it. “ _If_ he is capable of intelligent thought, why did you say that in front of him?!”

Weyoun had the desire to make friends bred into him long ago, but with comments like these, Dukat managed to override it. It was impressive. “I did hear you emphasize the word ‘if.’ These ears of mine aren’t ornamental, Dukat.” 

“Really? What did you make of what she just said about replacing you?” Dukat asked.

He had suspected that the announcement would come eventually, or that he would simply be retired without fanfare one day. That one of his deaths would be the final one, and he would never again open his eyes to take in the sight of a cloning facility warped through artificial amniotic fluid. He smiled. “It has been an honor to serve the Founders for this long, Dukat. And if she is letting me overstay my service, how kind!” 

“Very good, Weyoun.” The Founder nodded. “As you can see, Dukat, he is not prone to duplicitousness like the Cardassians. It’s your people who could stand to learn from the Vorta’s example, and if you desire our continued protection and the security of your position, you will agree.” 

Dukat chuckled. “He really is a good little riding hound!” 

Weyoun blinked, but did not dare disappoint the Founder by asking what a “riding hound” was.

* * *

In a free moment, Weyoun brought up images of the riding hound at his workstation. After their boxy muzzle, they were all arcs, with sturdy-looking legs and a huge chest that gave way to a slim waist that would look fragile if not for the hounds' hulking size. The Vorta were engineered before the Founders understood that diplomats ought to have a sense of aesthetics, but Weyoun guessed from the extreme spring-loaded appearance of the creatures that they would either be considered very beautiful or exceptionally ugly.

What he read next chilled him. He grinned—he never had been taught the ways to express displeasure. He spun his chair around to face Damar, because it was still possible that the information was fake and alarmist, attempting to scare outsiders away from Cardassia Prime. “Is it true that many cities on Cardassia Prime have a problem with stray riding hounds roaming along their outskirts and through the streets?” 

“Not where I come from,” Damar muttered, as if he had been accused of something. He was rubbing his temples so hard, it would not be a surprise if the scales on them fell off. The console showed that he was revising a speech Dukat was to give to his people. 

“Then it is true in other places! That’s really very interesting.” Weyoun clapped his hands together, the dread sinking in further. “Is it also true that many of these riding hounds turn feral?” 

“Not now, Weyoun! I’m busy!” Damar snapped, still not looking up. 

“Don’t worry, my friend, you know Dukat won’t follow the script.” 

Damar had been worn down to the point he no longer bothered to correct Weyoun when he referred to them as friends these days. “It doesn't matter. I have a duty. Don't you understand that? You always... attempt... to do your job.”

It was not the time to try to explain how the Founders were perfect, godly beings while the Cardassian state was merely a collective of flawed individuals. No, it was time to rely on the trick that never failed. “Yes, that is true! But the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner I’ll stop talking!” 

As expected, Damar straightened up. “It’s true. Young Cardassians have mandatory training regarding what to do if they encounter a feral riding hound. I imagine that this large-scale conflict drawing officials away from the surface of Cardassia Prime and into space is going to exacerbate the issue. But I have a feeling you don’t care about that.” 

“That's not true. I care very much about your culture. I care about each and every world embraced by the Dominion.” The Founders engineered the Vorta as a gift out of this care, and as acolytes, it was up to the Vorta to help facilitate happy relationships between the Founders with the rest of the universe. “Why do the riding hounds turn feral, Damar?” 

“If they’re abandoned by their masters, if they don’t receive proper training when they’re young, if they end up in the wild and have to survive…” he spoke quickly, clearly scrambling for the piece of information that would be interesting enough to capture Weyoun’s attention. 

“And… is their DNA altered when they become feral?” 

“Do I look like a woman to you? How am I supposed to know that?” Damar asked, because Cardassian culture associated the sciences with femininity. “I would ask why you’d ask me, but it must be because you sent all of your experts in genetic modification away to my planet to edit my people’s genes!”

In truth, there were many genetic researchers Weyoun could consult with the press of a button. But he could not consult them about this. They would immediately detect the concerns lurking behind his question. 

* * *

Four Jem'Hadar soldiers who had survived their strict training regimen stood before him. “We pledge our loyalty to the Founders from now until death,” they swore, their voices as one. 

Through the porthole, the motion of the ship caused the homogenous stars appear to drift endlessly away. Some dwarfed others, some appeared dimmer than others, but the ship passed them by all the same. The Founders were the most efficient and rational deciders in existence, but Weyoun did often wonder why the beings like the Cardassians got to see romance and beauty in the stars while the Vorta could not. Was this a sign that Weyoun was going feral? The Founders’ decisions were unquestionable. Perhaps this was why the Vorta were to be replaced with genetically-altered Cardassians. Weyoun’s fingers shook as he plucked the Jem’Hadar’s first doses of ketracel-white from its grey case. “T-Then receive this reward from the Founders. May it keep you strong.” Though he knew the words by heart, his voice was breathier than usual. He handed the drug over. 

The Jem’Hadar obediently injected themselves, but their eyes narrowed. Weyoun felt shame streaming through his body, as if he were the one with a drug racing through his bloodstream. How could he let himself look like a weak servant? He was betraying the Founder’s trust! As he deserved, the Jem’Hadar turned their backs on him and marched out of the room, leaving him with nothing but the empty case to keep him company. He slumped over at the table and lay his head on its cold surface, staring sideways at the case and the stars beyond. 

It had been nearly a day since he had first learned of the concept of “feral.” His body was only a few weeks-old, meaning he was young, and he was alone, leaving him susceptible. He had not seen the Founder since the meeting with Dukat, but he could not risk interrupting her undoubtedly important business simply to assuage his fears. And while he did read that creatures capable of higher-order thought could neither be domesticated nor feral, well, that must have been outdated research fabricated by Federation scientists. It was bitterly ironic—his species had been selectively bred to be perceptive and intelligent, and yet the lack of a drug to keep him dependent left him more at risk for succumbing to a feral state than the Jem’Hadar, who had been designed for manual labor. Instead, Weyoun’s obedience was merely hardcoded into his genes, genes that were subject to alteration and destruction, not ensured by an extrinsic intravenous drip. His body had become a countdown clock.

He heard the door slide open before he saw it. He jolted upward, causing the edge of the table to press into his abdomen before he stumbled back. It was not the Founder coming to provide him with orders—it was Dukat obstructing the doorway. “Look at you, drooling on the tabletop… you do commit to the role of riding hound, don’t you?” 

Dukat never failed to force Weyoun’s smile to fall. “If you took the time to recuperate between tasks, Dukat, you would become a far more effective servant.”

“That’s precisely what an obedient animal that’s been broken-in would say.” Dukat still had not left the exit. Was he intentionally blocking Weyoun’s one path to the Founder? “You don’t have a defiant bone in your body, do you?”

“I don’t? What wonderful news!” Weyoun perked up. 

“Actually, perhaps I was wrong,” Dukat drew closer. Weyoun took the fact that Dukat would admit he was fallible as an alarming sign. “You aren’t a very loyal servant after all.”

Weyoun froze. He could bolt through the doorway and search for the Founder, but then he would lose the chance to uncover what signs of feral-ness Dukat had picked up on within him. “Why would you say that?” he asked, eyeing the exit. 

“Well, you see, on Cardassia, it’s considered key for good servants to challenge their masters, especially if their masters show doubt.” Dukat was puffing out his broad chest. “And don’t tell me the Founders never show any doubt—Constable Odo is one of them, and look at how passionately he and the one you are serving disagree!” 

“I serve _every_ Founder, Dukat. Each one is one droplet in the same great sea, and if they appear to disagree, well, I should step back and wait for them to reach their decision!” He stared up at Dukat’s face. The spoon on his forehead was in shadow, so it looked inky black inside. “And you’re… lying about this Cardassian precept. Isn’t questioning authority figures what leads to one’s execution on Cardassia? Or what leads to falling into bed with them, if they have a rousing argument...?”

Dukat leered down at him. “You don’t wish you could fall into bed with your Founder?” 

“That is exactly the type of question I would expect from you, Dukat.” Seeing how unhelpful this exchange was, Weyoun moved to leave, but Dukat put a heavy hand on his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. 

“I understand that you have a sex drive,” Dukat continued, in a low tone. “Why would the Founders have created you with one if it hadn’t been for a specific purpose? They never even bothered to grant you an appreciation for the arts… if they’re as efficient as you claim they are, they wouldn’t have included a libido if they didn’t have a plan in mind for it.” He tightened his grasp on Weyoun’s shoulder. “And I can’t help but notice that they also chose to breed a certain capacity for argumentation and insults into you—ah!” He feigned having an epiphany. “Or maybe you were designed to please… others? Maybe… Cardassians?” He leaned in further. 

“I have come to learn where a few sensitive spots on the Cardassians are located! Let me put that knowledge to use.” Weyoun thrust his fingers into Dukat’s spoon and pushed past him, leaving Dukat disoriented and cursing in his wake. Weyoun stormed out of the room and into the dimly-lit hallway. What an embarrassing encounter. 

As he passed light fixture after light fixture, he tried to focus on his distaste for Dukat, but this procession of existential questions stuck to his thoughts like poisonous sap. His host of old worries about how he could ever possibly be a good servant to both the Founder who formed the Dominion and to Odo came swelling back to the surface. If he could not even escape this quandary, it was undeniable that he had been doomed to obsolescence from the outset. 

* * *

Weyoun came to a decision shortly thereafter. He had to find the Founder and beg her to have him replaced immediately. He could see that turning feral was inevitable, and that meant he should not be left alive any longer than absolutely necessary. And if he turned feral, he might hinder her plans, which would be unforgivable. Even as he took the long, monotonous journey to the bridge, he felt himself incrementally degrading. 

The doors to the bridge parted and Weyoun stepped inside. The lights were low and the thick smell of kanar hung in the recirculated air. Despite the fact that the Vorta were immune to most poisons he was sickened by the atmosphere, because it was apparent that the Founder was absent. But when Weyoun’s weak eyes settled on the scene Damar was making, huddled in a corner and taking swigs directly from a twisted bottle, something shifted. Weyoun’s nausea sharpened and he found himself drawn farther into the dark, until he stood looming over Damar. Cardassians often flinched when they saw Weyoun's cold purple eyes for the first time, and he found himself hoping that in the glinting of the consoles their unnerving nature would be emphasized. But the effort was wasted when Damar did not even look up at him. Insolent. If only Weyoun had been one of the prototype Vorta—the ones with telekinetic powers, who were deemed unstable—he would have torn the bottle away. Of course, this was a subversive thought, but if Weyoun was being retired regardless, it did not ultimately matter.

“Damar, do you know why I take your propensity for drink as a personal affront?” Weyoun flexed and unflexed his fingers as he waited for acknowledgement. Usually, he pitied Damar for descending into intoxication because he could not comprehend that servitude to the Dominion was a noble pursuit, but that familiar pity was subsiding. 

“...Yes, because you’re uncultured and think it’s swill.” Damar’s movements and speech were slow, as if he were suspended in artificial amniotic fluid. Weyoun guessed that Dukat had done something particularly foolish earlier that had driven Damar to these depths again.

“It isn’t that. Your ability to detect poisons isn't as finely-tuned as that of the Vorta. It isn't your fault that you can't tell how toxic it is.” Weyoun hunched over and crossed his arms over the console, watching the reflection of his face warping in the bottle Damar was holding. “No, the problem is that I can't stand to see you hurting yourself all because you don't understand you have the perfect reason to rejoice!”  
  
Leaning back, Damar retreated into himself, his attention waning. 

Weyoun struck the metal to startle him back to awareness. The sharp sound continued to ring in his ears. “You’re Dukat’s adjutant—the Founder will surely designate you to be cloned—so would you kindly explain to me why you can sit here drinking yourself into oblivion?” he spoke in a hushed tone that did not match his thunderous emotions. 

“Oh, is that what’s going to happen? Then I suppose I’m overjoyed that the Founder wants to use my body, without my consent, to create an expendable workforce that will irreparably damage everything about my home world,” Damar said sarcastically, even though he ought to have believed in every word of it!

“How dare you shun the Founder’s love? How dare you, when I’ve been having the worst day of any of my lives because I finally realized my failing them is bound to happen?” A grin formed on Weyoun’s face against his will as he felt a tightening around his eyes. 

Damar had an expression of genuine confusion, which to Weyoun was like a stab in the chest. “What…? Did we face some defeat I don’t know about?” Damar asked. “And I’m not drinking this kanar _at_ you, Weyoun.”

“Yes, you are.” Weyoun waited until Damar’s grip on the bottle loosened enough for Weyoun to rip it out of his hands. “You are, and you don’t even know it.” He raised the half-empty bottle above his head as if to bludgeon someone with it, pausing for a moment, before bringing it down, hard.

He knew it was a mistake the instant it shattered. Shards of glass scattered every which way, the thick, syrupy liquid creeped across the floor from the impact site, and Weyoun could not stop himself from shouting, “Damar, if any of your people are as dedicated to the State as you claim to be, you should be very pleased to not be irreplaceable anymore—it’s much more useful to the State to be improved with each iteration!” He stood tall, even though instinctively he knew something was very wrong. “Why, I look forward to meeting Damar Two! Maybe the alcoholism will be engineered out of him,” he said, but he was staring at the broken glass as he said it.

Suddenly, the bridge was flooded with light. Weyoun’s head snapped up and he barely registered Damar’s recoiling from the brightness before that immaculate voice rang out from behind, “Weyoun, what have you done?”

“Founder!” Weyoun gasped as if he had just been saved from drowning. He turned to run to her side, but a stabbing pain caused him to crumple over and brought him down. Above his ankle was a long, hairlike cut, and when his trembling fingers brushed it, his blood began falling to join the puddle of kanar. 

“This is unacceptable behavior.” The Founder’s hands turned golden and gelatinous, then stretched out, twisted around Weyoun’s wrists, and hardened into shackles drawn by chains that led into her upper arms. She yanked the shackles back, drawing Weyoun to a standing position. Her glare bored into Weyoun’s very being. “What reason could you possibly have for rudely bringing up the cloning project to Damar?”

“I-I was simply working for your benefit, Founder. He already knew about the project, and I merely wished to explain to him that he shouldn’t shrink away from your glory—” The words died in his throat. What was he thinking, trying to justify an action she had already denounced? He was filth. It spoke to the Founders’ mercy that she even touched him.

“You were bred for the sole purpose of diplomacy. You need to be diplomatic in your every action and word.” She looked away from his worthless face and turned to Damar. “As the scientist behind the Vorta, I apologize for this and can’t help but feel culpable. I know that the Cardassians have vivid memories, but I certainly hope this won't remain a stain on the association between our people and yours.”

“No, why would this, of all things, be the stain?” Damar said nervously. His stare darted to the shackles, then back to the Founder. “Maybe Weyoun here was thinking about Cardassian culture… displays that might sound volatile to others often aren't signs of hostility for us… even when they include a little property damage.” 

“Don't even pretend to defend me!” Weyoun choked out. His face felt hot and wet and his wound stung. “I'm already feral—I need to be replaced!”

The Founder and Damar stared at him as if he was speaking more nonsense, but the Founder did not question him. Instead, she scrutinized Damar’s face. “How fortunate that you’re not fazed by this, Damar. Very well, get rid of this mess.”

“What? Why do I have to be the one—” 

“An untidy workplace would be nearly as shameful as Weyoun's sullied mind and conduct,” she said. “While you clean the bridge, I'll see to it that Weyoun is thoroughly disciplined.” She pulled the chain taut in one smooth motion and took Weyoun back into the dark hall. 

* * *

Every time Weyoun’s gaze lowered to the sight of the shackles on his wrists as he followed behind her, he was wracked with sobs. If he were a proper servant, the Founder would know that she never needed physical chains to bind him to her.

“Weyoun, your hyperventilating is distracting to me,” said the Founder, “and the bleeding… repulsive. I hope never to understand what Odo sees in the leaking bodily fluids of solids.” 

Weyoun held his breath for a minute, though his pulse still resounded in his ears. He exhaled slowly, trying to remain silent. “I apologize, Founder, for… everything.” However, he could not staunch the bleeding with his hands bound.

“Yes, what was that little meltdown about? It was highly uncharacteristic for a Vorta, and I’ve meticulously catalogued their every characteristic,” she mused. “An emergent quality?” Her half-lidded blue eyes were so serene, in spite of her righteous disappointment. Was the clanking of the chains she extended from her form at all melodic?

“I was shattered by the fact that I’m incapable of serving you,” Weyoun whispered. 

“Is that so? You didn’t seem to have any desire for self-preservation after my announcement yesterday.”

“It isn’t about being replaced, it’s the fact that I’ve somehow... degraded, and won’t be able to serve you until the last moment. In fact, it would be for the best if you were to replace me right away—” 

The Founder cut him off by spinning on her heel, causing Weyoun to lurch forward and exacerbate his wound. “Do you think my team of genetic engineers and I are incompetent enough to create a species that degrades over time? And what do you mean, ‘it would be for the best?’ You should know better than to presume what’s best for me and my designs, Weyoun,” she said. “If I want to keep you alive despite your obvious incompetence, that is my right.”

“Yes, of course, it’s your divine right! And of course not, you are incapable of error!” His thoughts were as scattered as the shards of broken glass. “I was… referring to my turning feral, Founder.” 

The Founder remained silent until they reached the door to Weyoun’s quarters. She opened it and heaved a sigh. “...Don’t be ridiculous,” she eventually said. She shapeshifted, drawing the chains back into her body, and reforming her usual arms. 

Even though his wrists had deep impressions in them, Weyoun mourned the loss of her touch. 

“While I hold you in your quarters, you _will_ think about your mistake.”

Weyoun paused in the doorway. “You are unconcerned with my being feral? Founder, what if I fail you again?”

The Founder placed her hand on Weyoun’s cheek, and he wanted to relinquish control of his body and melt into her caress. He wondered if this is what beauty was. “Weyoun,” the Founder said, “you are my creation. Your faith in me and the rest of my people is not one-sided—I also place my trust in you. Furthermore, I trust that you’ll be intelligent, just as I designed you to be.” She took her hand off his cheek and used it to push him backward in his quarters. “Put that intellect to use while you’re in solitary confinement.” 

Weyoun reached out, but was met only by the cold door. It had already been locked from the outside. He felt tears returning to his swollen, crusted eyes. Not waiting for them to spill over, he raced across the room and into his trove of items from other worlds, searching for the perfect tool to reimpose order on his mind. He was allowed any number of little joys in his spare time as long as he remained dedicated to the Founders—he was not a Cardassian, conflating service with sacrifice—but in his current crisis, nothing seemed to suit his needs. He clawed at the piles of items, picking up and then discarding an inkless marker, a broken holophoto frame, and a single thick-soled, rubbery shoe, until he settled for a musical instrument. 

He stroked its smooth surface, imagining the supple skin of the Founder’s hand, as he slowly disentangled it from the cord. This was a miniature version of an instrument known as a bullroarer in Standard—though this one used to belong to Damar and was Cardassian in make. Weyoun held fast to the cord and swung the instrument in a circle above his head, losing himself in the whirring noise that resounded throughout his quarters. Only the throbbing of the cut above his ankle pierced his trance. 

When the tears had all dried, Weyoun held his hand still and let the instrument fall down into a pendulous motion. His collection of objects from across the galaxy now looked far more like trash than treasure, but he found he could finally focus on important questions: for instance, if his cut was appropriate punishment for failing the Founder, should he leave himself injured? After all, upon his next demise, he would be granted a new body regardless. But no, he had to treat this wound. Cloning another Weyoun might draw resources away from much more urgent operations, especially when the Vorta’s days were numbered. Weyoun threw down the bullroarer, where it came to rest among the many other things strewn at his feet.

His mind made up, he hiked up his robe and disinfected the cut to the best of his abilities. Even though it burned, he found he was too dehydrated to cry. The wound still felt gritty despite the fact he could not see any bits of glass inside—maybe it was a psychosomatic effect, and he wanted it to hurt to remind him of his failings. With his only order being to think about his mistake, he crawled into bed and lay down on his side on top of the covers and thought about it, replaying it over and over until he felt he was spinning.

* * *

The summons did come. Whether it was hours or days later, Weyoun could not say, because he had no time to check before bolting to the already-open door. 

“Did you take the time to think about your mistake?” The Founder asked, with no preamble. 

“Yes!” he exclaimed. He wanted to prostrate himself before her, but was not certain it would be permitted. 

“Very good.” She ran a hand over one of his ears, in a motherly fashion, then withdrew. “From now on I expect you to only speak when prompted, and that you’ll refrain from arguing with our associates unless I ask that of you personally.”

Weyoun waited for a clear sign to speak, but when it did not come, he settled for bowing slightly instead. 

The Founder did not smile, but her features seemed to soften. “Despite this mistake, Weyoun, you remain the only solid I trust.”  
  
Weyoun beamed. “Thank you.” 

He knew more than ever that the Founders never made mistakes, but as he watched her turn away and walk down the darkened hall, he wished he could link with her and let her feel his earlier panic and shame so she would understand that he had never doubted, not even during his outburst. Instead, unable to link or speak unprompted, he limped after her, taking solace only in the fact that he had managed to avoid becoming feral. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never watched a full episode of DS9 that featured Weyoun (or Damar, for that matter), and I've only ever seen the female shapeshifter and Dukat in their earlier appearances, reading about how the Vorta were treated by the writers made me sick. Why is committing genocide against the Founders rightfully treated as immoral, but the Federation being complicit in committing genocide against the Vorta—their indoctrinated servant race—somehow never addressed? And also, the hypocrisy of Ira Steven Behr really bothered me. From what I've gleaned from interviews, this is basically what he did:
> 
> JEFFREY COMBS: Can I have Weyoun go to the good side?
> 
> BEHR: No, Jeff, thE bAd GuYs ArE tHe BaD gUYs
> 
> NANA VISITOR, ANDREW ROBINSON, AND CASEY BIGGS: So... when are we going to have Kira and Garak come to terms with the fact that Damar killed Ziyal?
> 
> BEHR: We can't do that, it might make it harder for the audience to see Damar as redeemed!
> 
> I know about Weyoun 6, but that just makes things worse in my eyes. Morality probably shouldn't be portrayed as being based in genetic code. 
> 
> So, that's how this fix-it fic was born.


End file.
